


Snakebite

by tirsynni



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5904394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Elric has fought things out of nightmares and walked away without any issues. This would be no different.</p>
<p>There was no difference at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snakebite

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic from livejournal which was written before the completion of the manga.

The hands were cold and rough on his chest, and Edward Elric rolled his head, wondering when they had _gotten_ there. He heard a rip and felt a breeze and knew his shirt was gone.

_No_ , he thought, but the same fog that clouded his mind obscured the word.

He felt cold, he knew. And he felt pain. Those sensations didn’t ground him as much as he had hoped.

Edward registered the warmth trickling from his mouth at the same time as he felt the hands move from his chest to his waist. He heard a harsh voice and sharp nails cut the skin around his leather pants.

“…stop it.” The cold and pain sharpened, dissipating the fog. The pounding in his skull intensified. Edward moaned and tasted something metallic in his mouth.

The nails scraped harder, more frantically, around his hips. Aware enough to know he should be afraid, Edward kicked out.

Through the haze shading his mind and his vision, Edward saw the slim figure above him hesitate. Then the nails dug into his skin, bruising his hipbones and tearing his flesh.

“…s-stop,” Edward rasped. He was afraid, he realized, the fear cooling his skin and curdling his stomach. The man’s touch _frightened_ him, and Edward _hated_ for it. “Stop!”

Pain cracked in his face in the same spot as before. Edward’s other cheek slammed against the floor. The world spun; it took a moment for his shaken mind to grasp the man’s words:

“Shut up, whore.”

The fog thickened, and the pain and cold faded. Edward squeezed his eyes shut and tried to _think_. The hands and nails returned, hard and painful. He started moving his hands together, not knowing why but knowing that he _could_ and _should_ and instantly, hands snatched at his wrists. Edward’s reaction was instinctive:

He screamed.

The hands released him. Pain flashed through his face again, and this time Edward lay still, trying to recover the few wits he had left. The hands grabbed his pants and started ripping at them.

Then the hands froze. The weight against him vanished. Instantly, Edward rolled into a fetal position. With that move, the feeling of _hate_ returned tenfold.

“—metal?” New hands, gentle hands, touched his shoulder. Edward stiffened and almost clapped his hands. “Fullmetal?”

Edward stopped. He parted bruised lips. “General?”

The fog thickened, and the cold and pain and hate faded.

xoxoxox

Fingers steepled together and face hard, General Mustang sat behind his desk. His icy eyes swept the office once, taking in the people there. Sipping a steaming cup of coffee, Fullmetal sat on the couch, golden hair hiding his face. Colonel Hawkeye hovered beside him, gun in her hands. Havoc, Breda, and Fuery were positioned around the room, some of their faces hard, some solemn. Havoc’s cigarette rested in his hand, chewed in half.

Then Mustang’s gaze slowly returned to the original object of perusal. Sergeant Eliot Cross knelt in the middle of the room, cuffed hands behind his back.

In that moment of silence, yet another window of opportunity passed for Cross. Mustang wasn’t a big enough man to not feel a thrill of dark satisfaction at that.

“So explain again, Sergeant,” Mustang continued mildly, leaning forward, “why you felt the need to first physically assault my subordinate and then attempt to sexually assault him in a storage room.” _Sexually assault. Attempted rape._ Mustang gestured at his troops. “We’ve been waiting for the last fifteen minutes.”

Fullmetal’s face was uncharacteristically calm over his cup of coffee, his expressive eyes shuttered. Mustang had not even heard him complain about the extra sugar Fuery had put in. There was a distance in his face Mustang had never seen before, a new, cool consideration chilling his usually fiery gaze. His golden eyes never left Cross’s face.

On the other hand, Cross’s gaze never left Mustang. “General Mustang, I meant no harm to your subordinate. I found him—”

“And I told you already not to lie to me,” Mustang interrupted smoothly. “Upon receiving your proposition, my subordinate refused and made to leave the room. You proceeded to strike him with enough force to stun him and then began undressing him. When he resisted, you again physically assaulted him.” Mustang smiled, eyes cold. “It can be presumed that if my subordinate’s . . . calls . . . had not been heard, you would have continued with your assault.” _You would have raped him_. Mustang showed a hint of pearly teeth. “And please do not lie to me again. It insults my intelligence. You left a very clear imprint of your fist on my subordinate’s face, after all.”

Watching everything with those oddly opaque eyes, Fullmetal sipped his coffee, said bruise obvious against his pale face. However, it didn’t look like it pained him, even with the movements of his mouth against the mug. Hawkeye watched him like a hen with a single chick, but he looked no more perturbed by that than he did by Mustang’s interrogation. That bothered Mustang more than he wanted to admit.

When Cross didn’t answer, Mustang leaned back in his chair. “No further defense then?” he inquired. Silence. Gracefully, Mustang stood. “Major Breda: please escort Sergeant Cross. I believe he wishes to visit our friendly security officers. Lt. Colonel Havoc, please provide them company.” He smiled. “Feel free to exert any necessary force at the first signs of resistance.”

Breda nodded; Havoc flashed his teeth in what should have been a smile. Fullmetal watched.

As soon as they escorted Cross from the room, Fullmetal placed his mug of coffee to one side and stood. Hawkeye instantly stood. Everyone’s eyes focused on Fullmetal, but to Mustang’s concern, the young man did not appear to notice.

“Well, now that _that’s_ taken care of,” Fullmetal said, “I’m going to the dorm. I have a mission in the morning.”

The whole reason Fullmetal had been in the building: to get the mission papers. Mustang felt ill.

“There is no time requirement on this mission, Fullmetal,” Mustang quietly reminded him, too aware of the others in the room. Trusted allies, all, but more eyes and ears than needed. “A day’s recuperation from today’s incident—”

“I don’t need to ‘recuperate’ all day for a bruise!” Now a hint of sharpness, a hint of _something_ in those golden eyes. Then the chill returned, sliding like a mask over Fullmetal’s peaked face. Fullmetal’s mouth was tight as he nodded at Hawkeye, then Fuery. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”

Without another word, Fullmetal left the room. Mustang watched him leave, feeling an odd hollow in his chest.

He felt like there should have been something else to say, but his tongue felt numb in his mouth.

_It’s nothing_ , Mustang decided, nodding at his subordinates they left the room. _No one died; no one was really hurt. It’s just another incident._

But he still wished Fullmetal had shouted about being treated like a child or at least had screamed some irrational comment about his height.

But there had been nothing.

Nothing.

xoxoxox

“Yo, Bastard! What the hell was the point on that mission?”

Mustang had never been so happy to hear that familiar foul mouth in his life. Staring triumphantly at his paperwork— _legitimate_ reason to stall it this time—he resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. With each raise in rank, his paperwork rose, too, making him wonder at times _why_ he wanted to become Fuhrer. Then he decided that the paperwork must be some evil tactic used to intimidate ambitious soldiers and struggled against the vicious tactic.

With the help of Lt. Colonel Havoc’s gun, of course.

And Colonel Hawkeye’s whenever she chose to visit.

Of all the lessons to be passed on.

His door was kicked open with its usual flourish, and he greeted Fullmetal with a charming smile. Fullmetal bared his teeth back in what Mustang chose to interpret was a returning smile.

“So does that mean you found nothing of interest on your mission?” Mustang inquired, watching Fullmetal stalk to the desk. Age meant longer limbs, which meant less time to actually _stalk_ anywhere, but Fullmetal managed to pour every ounce of feline indignation he could into each step. The blond’s eyes flashed at him, and Mustang barely concealed a grin.

Oh yes. Much better than devilish paperwork.

“Maybe there were a couple other things,” Fullmetal admitted grudgingly, and then he pulled his upper lip back to bare his teeth. Mustang changed his earlier evaluation: not feline, _lupine_. He wondered if he should take an office poll.

“So not a total waste of time then?” Mustang asked innocently, and he gloried in the way Fullmetal’s cheeks flushed with rage. Time may have granted Fullmetal height but it did little for his temper.

No. He hadn’t kicked, punched, or transmuted anything yet. Maybe he was calming down in his old age.

“If you had just _told_ me what I was going there for, it wouldn’t have taken two damned weeks!” Fullmetal snapped, but there was more flash than flame in his words. After so long, Fullmetal knew Mustang rarely _admitted_ that he wanted Fullmetal to check out some suspicious official: he just tossed Fullmetal in the right direction.

However, since Fullmetal was graciously distracting Mustang from his paperwork, Mustang allowed the younger man to blow off some steam. “Shall we see what you have been doing those two weeks?” He held out his hand, and Fullmetal pulled out his report and handed it to him.

Gloved fingers brushed against gloved fingers, and something dark slid over Fullmetal’s eyes as he pulled his hand back. Huffing, Fullmetal brushed a lock of hair out of his face, staring out the window. “You should know,” he groused, fiddling with a golden strand. “You probably could have written that report yourself!” He glanced at him, eyes sparking, before turning back to the window. “Fuckin’ control freak, you probably knew what I was doing the whole damned time!”

Fullmetal’s report in hand, Mustang hesitated, looking Fullmetal over once. The blond was staring almost longingly out the window, and he resisted the urge to look out the window himself. The last thing he needed was to see what he was missing.

“I’m happy you think so highly of me, Fullmetal,” he murmured, opening the folder. As badly written as ever and Mustang wondered wistfully if Fullmetal would use a typewriter if he bought him one. He would buy it himself with his own money. “If nothing else, you seemed to have entertained yourself the past two weeks.”

As usual, the report didn’t match up to the details that had reached Mustang, but that didn’t surprise him. As volatile as Fullmetal was, numerous little ‘incidents’ tended to occur that everyone was happier ignoring—locals and military alike.

Although, this time there were more fights than usual. After a moment, Mustang shrugged it off.

Glancing up, he saw Fullmetal still standing in front of his desk, fiddling with that poor strand of hair. “You may sit, if you like,” Mustang offered. By now, the young man had usually thrown himself on the couch, smugly stretching his slender limbs. _Look_ , he seemed to be saying, _I can_ _reach the floor now!_

Of course, Fullmetal would probably kill him if he knew he was interpreting it like that, but that was what diplomatic silence was for.

Fullmetal’s eyes snapped to him like he had forgotten Mustang was there. The smolder in Fullmetal’s eyes startled him. “Nah,” Fullmetal dismissed him. “You have the report in your hands, and you damned well _know_ you know what I was doing.” He flashed his fangs in a fierce smile, lips stretched thin over his teeth. “No need for me to stay here any longer.”

There was a skip somewhere, Mustang felt. Something was _off_ , and Mustang didn’t like it when things were off. However, _off_ was a usual thing where Fullmetal was concerned. “Oh, there’s no need to rush, Fullmetal.” He smiled at the young alchemist, watching him fidget. Something sparked inside of him, and his smile widened. “Or perhaps there is a need to rush, Fullmetal? A date, perhaps?”

For a moment, Fullmetal’s eyes glinted, and his smile hardened. “Just because I have things to do doesn’t mean I’m a whore like you, Bastard.”

The unexpected _bite_ there startled Mustang, and it must have shown, because Fullmetal momentarily calmed his fidgeting. “Told Al I would call him when I got back,” he explained. He jerked one shoulder in a half-shrug, but his eyes softened into something almost apologetic. “Don’t want to keep him waiting just because you’re too lazy to actually read something.”

Mustang thumbed through the worn pages. There was a boot mark on one of them. He didn’t bother wondering how that had happened. “Ah.” He shut the folder. “Then I suppose you should go call him then.”

Fullmetal grinned, his eyes dark. “Don’t want to keep him waiting.”

When Fullmetal turned away, he finally released that battered strand of hair. The tip was torn and frayed.

xoxoxox

“Brother! I wasn’t expecting you to call so soon.”

“Aw, you didn’t want to hear from your big brother? I’m hurt.”

“No, it’s not like that! I just thought . . . your meeting with the general . . .”

“Eh, nothing interesting was happening. Besides, he probably had a date or something to get to. So what have I been missing?”

“Trish said ‘Daddy’! Isn’t that great? Well, it was more like ‘da’y’ but it was close, right?”

“Yep! Really close.”

“Are you laughing at me, Brother?”

“No, no, of course not!”

“Yeah, well . . . are you okay, Brother?”

“Of course I am. Why?”

“You just sound . . . tired. Did anything happen during the mission? You said it was going to be easy!”

“It was easy! And don’t worry, nothing happened during the mission. It . . . the train ride sucked. I swear, those seats only get worse with time.”

“I guess . . .”

“Well, you can come visit me in Central sometime. Remind yourself of the train’s old glories.”

“Or you could come to Resembool. You could probably use a vacation, Brother.”

“…”

“Brother?”

“Oh. Nothing. I’ll try to swing by soon, though.”

“Brother, is something—”

“Well, I better let you go! Tell everyone ‘hi’ for me!”

“ _Broth_ er—”

Click.

xoxoxox

Edward stared at the cracked, stained ceiling of his dorm. He recognized the yellow of old cigarette smoke soaked into the wood and imagined he could still smell it. He shifted on the mattress, hearing it creak, and frowned.

“Dammit,” he whispered. “It’s _nothing_. It’s fucking _nothing._ ”

But the ceiling refused to change and his skin refused to stop itching. Sighing, Edward reached for a book.

He read it by the faint moonlight and when that faded, turned on the light.

xoxoxox

There were lines around Edward’s eyes.

Sympathetically, Jean offered him the mug of coffee in his hands. “Long night, Boss?” he asked.

Smiling weakly, Edward took the mug from his hands. He inhaled the rising steam, and Jean watched some of the strain ease from the young man’s face.

“Really got into a book,” Edward admitted, and Jean chuckled. Turning his wheelchair back around to the coffee pot, Jean reached for another mug.

“Those books will be the death of you one of these days, Boss,” Jean teased. Edward grinned, still holding his coffee mug like it was the Philosopher’s Stone itself, and Jean grinned back.

Yeah. 8:00am meetings were a bitch.

“I don’t even know why I have to attend this damned meeting,” Edward groused. Jean bit back a snicker as he poured himself some liquid heaven. Ahhhh, so black. He loved when the general roused himself enough to make coffee. “I never used to.”

“Since that last contract,” Jean reminded him merrily. It’s not that bad to suffer when everyone else is suffering, too. “You’re officially a career soldier rather than just some rebellious punk.”

Edward looked like he wanted to scowl, but he was too busy savoring the strong black coffee. Even if the man was useless when it came to paperwork, he knew how to make a mean cup of coffee. He mumbled something, and years of experience told Jean it was probably something that shouldn’t be repeated in mixed company. Actually, several minutes of experience would have told Jean that, but the years gave him a good idea of what _exactly_ Edward had just snarled.

Smiling into his own cup of coffee, Jean glanced at the clock. “Fifteen more minutes before we have to move our asses, Boss.”

Another grumble and another sip before Edward answered. The young man drank morning coffee like others drank fine scotch: a true soldier. Later he would gulp it. “Where’s it at?”

“Room 326.” Another delicious sip. It burnt his lips but this early, it was worth it.

“Isn’t that room a little . . . small?” The use of _that_ word distracted Jean even from the glory that was the morning’s first cup of coffee. He lowered the mug and stared at Edward, noticing the odd tightness of the alchemist’s mouth. Edward stared at his coffee, gloved fingers sliding up and down it like he was touching the skin of a lover.

“A little,” Jean admitted cautiously. Even with Edward’s extra height, it was best to tread carefully around such words. Just in case. “It’s not supposed to be a long meeting, though.”

“They always turn out to be long meetings.” Edward raised the mug to his lips and gulped down the rest of the coffee. Turning his back to Jean, he poured himself some more. “Ugh. It’ll be hot and smelly in there after a bit.”

Thinking for a moment, Jean chuckled. “That’s true.” He grinned at the blond, inviting him to join in on the joke. “Have you noticed how the general always manages to get a spot close to the window?”

Edward turned back around, and the lines around his mouth had softened again. “I think he’s tempted to jump out sometimes.” Edward chuckled. “I think I may join him this time.”

_To stand by the window or to jump out_? Jean wanted to ask, but then Breda pushed past him, mumbling fervently about coffee before the meeting.

In the end, Edward didn’t attend the meeting at all. He excused himself to use the bathroom, and it only occurred to Jean halfway through the meeting that Edward had never shown up.

xoxoxox

“Hey, Alphonse.”

“Brother! How are you? Isn’t it a little too early for you to be up?”

“Har-har-har. I _do_ work, y’know.”

“Yeah, yeah. So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Brother, something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Nothing. Just . . . I might be visiting you guys sooner than later. I think I’d enjoy a break.”

“The general hasn’t been harassing you to do his research again, has he?”

“Nah. Your last phone call stopped that. What did you say to him, anyway?”

“Never you mind. But Brother . . . you really do sound tired. I’ll clean up your room for you, okay? Why don’t you go get some sleep.”

“Yeah. That . . . that sounds like a good idea.”

“Of course it is. I said it.”

“…I love you, Al.”

“I love you, too, Brother.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

xoxoxox

Edward didn’t even notice someone was sitting beside him until Mustang tapped his shoulder. He leaped and barely managed to bite back a yell. Only the threat of the librarian so close by managed to keep him quiet.

“What are you doing here?” Edward hissed, struggling to focus on something besides printed words. As it was, he had to blink several times before Mustang’s face came into focus.

“Well,” Mustang drawled quietly, “since you decided to miss your meeting with me, I decided to bring the meeting to you.”

As Edward stared blankly at him, his mind struggling to make sense of what Mustang had just said, Mustang stretched and then placed his elbow on the library table. He rested his chin on his palm, staring at Edward and the piles of books around him with barely concealed amusement. Edward glared at him.

“The meeting?” Mustang prodded. “That you were supposed to have with me early this afternoon?” The brunet helpfully pulled out his state watch, opened it, and waved it in front of Edward. Edward stared at the hands inside the watch, the ‘second’ hand clicking dully on. “For that matter, the library’s going to close for the night soon. You may want to wrap up.”

Edward had not realized it was already that late. He shook his head once. His head felt clogged, like he was waking up from a deep sleep. He scowled at himself. Not the best shape to deal with Mustang.

And his shoulder refused to stop itching where Mustang had touched him. He resisted the urge to scratch at it. Instead, he started picking at his hair with the hand still not on his book.

“Yeah, well, I’ll meet up with you later about it,” he grumbled, glancing longingly at his book. It was one of the best books on chimerical alchemy he had found, and he didn’t even want to think about from where all the information had originated. “I’m working.”

Mustang stared at him; Edward grimaced inwardly. He hated when the man got that calculating look in his eyes. “Were you working through the last meeting, too?” Mustang inquired. “The office one? I’m sure you remember it.”

Edward glanced pointedly at his book. It was still open, his finger resting on the last line he had been reading. “Something like that.”

Mustang hummed, an sound oddly reminiscent to a snake’s hiss in Edward’s ears. “And last night, too?” He reached up to touch under Edward’s eyes, and Edward jerked back, almost falling out of his chair. Touchy-feely bastard.

_Why can’t he keep his damned hands to himself already?_

“It’s important!” he snapped before remembering to keep his voice down. Glancing across the library, Edward hunched in his chair. It was only in libraries that Edward wished he had his old height. “There’s plenty of people in the military who can make chimeras and not one who can unmake them.”

With another hum, Mustang nodded. “Is that why there was a request for time off on my desk? So you could research?”

Edward scowled. _Nosy_ , touchy-feely bastard. “I want to visit my brother. Something wrong with that?”

Edward shifted, feeling like his skin was crawling. His finger began tapping on the book, and he wondered why Mustang had to sit _beside_ him. Wasn’t the man used to sitting behind that damned desk of his? Why couldn’t he sit on the other side of the table?

_To be a pain in the ass_ , Edward reminded himself. Then he found himself wondering if Mustang was an ass or a pain in the ass. The question helped him relax.

Until he noticed the sharpness of Mustang’s gaze. Edward stiffened. _Bastard_.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Mustang assured him. He rose, and Edward looked away, trying not to notice how the man loomed over him. “Since you missed our last meeting, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind making up for it early. Perhaps 0730?”

Edward whirled around, an angry protest on his lips, but Mustang only smiled charmingly and held a finger to his lips. _Library_ , he mouthed.

_Bastard!_ Edward mouthed back, and Mustang’s smile grew.

Scowling to himself, Edward turned back to his book, listening intently as Mustang’s footsteps faded away. Only when the man was gone did he allow himself to relax.

Except his skin wouldn’t stop crawling, and the rage simmering inside of him refused to calm. The bastard didn’t need to keep touching him and he _definitely_ didn’t need to make Edward’s damned schedule for him. Edward shuddered and glared at the book. _Hate_ surged through him, but he refused to think about it, refused to acknowledge it, simply glowered at the book until the words came into focus again.

xoxoxox

“Hel—”

“Al?”

“Brother? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing’s wrong . . . just . . .tell me about your day. How’s Winry and Trish doing?”

“…When does your vacation start, Brother?”

“After this mission. Please, Al?”

“All right, Brother.”

xoxoxox

Kain Fuery hid behind his desk as the shouting intensified. It had started slowly, edged voices slicing through the relative silence. Edward’s voice first, sharp and startling vicious so early. Then the general’s voice, frustration clear through the door.

And it had just built ever since.

Kain didn’t want to admit it, but he hadn’t expected too much from the meeting. Edward had smiled at Kain as he had passed, but his eyes had been distant, face pinched. He hadn’t looked like he had seen Kain’s returning smile as he had dragged himself into General Mustang’s office.

He also didn’t want to admit to himself or anyone else, but Edward _scared_ him sometimes. Since the brothers’ restoration, a lot of Edward’s edge had softened. Now it had returned, and Kain feared who it would cut.

“Don’t tell me what I can do! I can fuckin’ take care of my fuckin’ self, you sonuvabitch!”

Kain couldn’t figure out if Edward was trying to cut himself or the general right now.

Something thunked loudly in the general’s office—like something had been thrown—and Kain flinched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Breda doing the same.

Abruptly, the door banged open, and Edward stalked out, a folder in one hand. He slammed the door shut behind him. Edward took a deep breath and sagged for a moment, the lines deepening around his mouth and eyes. As he wiped his face, hand lingering for a moment over his eyes, Kain edged out a little from behind his desk.

“Edward?” he asked cautiously, and Edward’s hand dropped away from his face like it burned. The slightly wild look in Edward’s eyes frightened him, but Kain plunged on. “Are you all right?

Edward’s face instantly darkened, something _fierce_ blazing in his eyes. “It’s _nothing_!” he snapped and stormed out before Kain could reply.

It was only when Kain was puzzling over the oddness of Edward’s answer that he identified the emotion in Edward’s eyes:

Hatred.

xoxoxox

One last mission before Fullmetal’s vacation. That was all it was supposed to be.

Mustang stared at the whiteness of the hospital walls, hands clenched in his lap. An _easy_ mission, even! Just a trifling before his best field agent was temporarily out of commission.

So how the hell did Fullmetal end up with a concussion and a gunshot wound?

Alphonse was on his way. Havoc and the others would arrive soon. For the moment, only Mustang was there, pale and alone and too aware of the voice still ringing in his ears.

‘A little off,’ his agent had told him of Fullmetal. _A little off_. Off enough that Fullmetal, with all of his years of combat experience, had been downed by an amateur terrorist. An _amateur_. Fullmetal had taken down professional _groups_ of terrorists and come away laughing at the adrenaline rush. Now one puny _amateur_ had landed him in the hospital.

That same agent had told him that Fullmetal had been _a little off_ during his last mission, too. Mustang hadn’t listened.

He stared at his fists and slowly forced his fingers to relax. He hadn’t listened and he hadn’t looked and he wondered how much of this was his fault.

“General?”

Mustang’s head snapped up, and he frowned. “Doctor?” he inquired, standing up.

A man in a long white coat walked up to Mustang, clipboard in his hand. However, Mustang wasn’t looking at that. He was looking at the purpling bruise around the man’s eye. He didn’t want to imagine how it would look later.

Knowingly, the doctor fingered his eye. Following the motion, Mustang remembered the lines around Fullmetal’s worn eyes, the smudges under them. Guilt and rage smoldered inside him, threatening to burn him alive.

_He hadn’t looked . . ._

“You are here for Lt. Colonel Elric, I presume,” the doctor—Dr. Harman, his tag read—said mildly. He lowered his hand from his eye. At Mustang’s nod, he gestured behind him. “I believe we need to talk.”

Twenty minutes later, Mustang sat at Fullmetal’s bedside, just watching him breathe. White bandages swathed the slender frame, and it was so easy for Mustang to remember the broken child he had met all those years ago. Havoc, Fuery, and Breda waited in the waiting room. Mustang did not look forward to the conversation coming up.

_Post-traumatic stress disorder?_

Of course, Fullmetal would have more than enough reason to suffer it. Men who had gone through less than Fullmetal suffered it. Still touching his bruised eye, Dr. Harman had discussed it with Mustang, mentioning Fullmetal’s violent reaction when he thought he was being held down, speaking calmly of Fullmetal’s shrieks when they had to sedate him to keep him from using his alchemy. Two security guards were currently in other hospital rooms, having their broken arms x-rayed and set. Mustang had admitted to the bruised doctor that Fullmetal counted as a living weapon even without his alchemy.

_Have there been any rigorous missions lately_? Dr. Harman has asked.

He hadn’t even asked about this particular mission, and Mustang felt like the worst kind of fool for even considering it. No. This mission hadn’t triggered it. This disaster had been the _result_ of it.

Mustang stared at the pale, still figure on the bed, taking in the slack face that looking nothing like his expressive subordinate, and gritted his teeth.

_Have there been any specific incidents lately_?

Yes. Yes, there had, and Mustang felt a rush of _hate_ at the memory of it.

_Damn him_.

Mustang wished he knew which ‘him’ he was thinking about.

xoxoxox

“Why wasn’t I informed of any of this?” Alphonse inquired, his voice deadly soft.

His brother looked _fragile_ on the hospital bed, and Alphonse wanted nothing more than to bundle him up and take him back to Resembool. As it was, he was warned against _touching_ Edward. No one knew how he would react, General Mustang had explained. He might react violently. He might not be in a state to hold back.

Damn him. It wasn’t _his_ brother lying so deathly still on the bed.

When Mustang subtly shifted on the chair, unable to meet his gaze, cruel approval surged through Alphonse. Yes, the man had _better_ squirm. Why hadn’t anyone noticed something was wrong? He had known _through the phone_. The others saw his brother every day, and they _hadn’t noticed_.

“Your brother experiences violence on such a regular basis, we had no reason to believe this would affect him,” Mustang offered, but the words were weak, none of Mustang’s usual strength backing them. Alphonse looked away from Edward to shoot him a scathing glare. At least the man had the decency to squirm a little more.

“But normally he can defend himself,” Alphonse pointed out coldly. Edward was fire and sparks and electricity: Alphonse was the snowstorm that swept over you, chilled you so slowly you didn’t realize you were dying. “He _couldn’t_ this time. He needed outside help. And this wasn’t an attack: this was an attempted _rape._ And you didn’t think it would bother him?”

His voice didn’t rise: it remained an icy blade, cutting through Mustang with surgical precision. Alphonse could hear Mustang’s sharp inhalation.

_Hurt_ , bastard, like Alphonse’s brother was hurting.

Mustang exhaled slowly. “We should have noticed,” he admitted, and Alphonse nodded. If the man had continued any sort of denial, Alphonse would have had to get serious. “It was our ignorance that led to this situation.”

Alphonse was tempted to ask for names: who had been around his brother lately? Who had seen the strain building and done _nothing_?

Alphonse wanted to touch his brother’s face, wipe away the shadows beneath his eyes. Alphonse clenched his fists and resisted the urge.

His brother was the passionate one of the pair. Alphonse was methodical, precise, quiet. Underneath that quiet, though, something was raging.

Looking at his broken brother, Alphonse _hated_ , and he despised the dark emotion roiling inside of him. However, if he ever found the man who had put this fear into his brother, he would tear him apart without hesitation.

Edward Elric was fearless, bold, untouchable. Alphonse thought about how Mustang had described his brother, speaking dully of how Edward flinched whenever someone touched him. Realization weighed heavily on the man, and Alphonse wished it would weigh heavier.

His brother should not be like this.

“As soon as my brother is allowed,” Alphonse said evenly, “he is coming home with me. I believe he has plenty of leave time built up.”

As Edward Elric was blazingly proud, Roy Mustang was smooth, radiating calm arrogance. Now he bowed his head, shoulders slumped. “Of course.”

Through it all, lost in a drugged world, Edward slept.

xoxoxox

The door barely made a sound when Jean opened it, but the creak seemed deafeningly in the silence of the room. Edward looked up sharply from his book and made a shushing move, nodding at Alphonse’s sleeping form. Looking at the slender blond, his upper body slumped on Edward’s bed, Jean nodded and quietly closed the door behind him.

Tomorrow Edward would be going home to Resembool. Dr. Harman had argued against it. He had suggested it would be better if the soldier stayed in Central, preaching the pros of therapy. Alphonse had actually laughed at the suggestion and asked who would be paying for the therapist’s therapy. The man had tried convincing the general, but General Mustang had simply stated that Alphonse and Edward would make all decisions. The military was simply footing the bill: for the hospital, for Edward’s expenses, even for the train to and from Resembool.

The incident was a military affair; the recovery would be personal.

With Alphonse sleeping and Edward protectively watching over him, Jean didn’t dare speak. Knowing this, Edward smiled at him and gestured towards the piles of books on the table beside him. Jean glanced at the titles and cringed. He bet even the first chapter of those would confuse him. Edward grinned at his blatant distaste; Jean grinned back.

Edward was still pale, but the circles under his eyes had faded, as had the lines tightening his mouth and eyes. One hand rested tenderly on the back of Alphonse’s head, and Jean’s grin softened. No better therapy for an Elric brother than the other Elric.

It was for the best he couldn’t speak. Edward would brush aside any apology he could possibly make, would possibly be insulted by it: _Do you think I can’t make up my own mind? Do you think I can’t make my own decisions?_

Jean’s guilt was a private thing, even if he saw it echoed in everyone’s eyes. Once Alphonse had confided in them that his guilt had always been one of silence, and since then, he had struggled to take a more active role in his surroundings. This time, too, everyone had known something was wrong, but it had been so easy to brush it off, not deal with it, than interfere. This would be their sin with which to live.

Edward would brush off their guilt like he always had Alphonse’s. Dr. Harmon had offered therapy for them, too. Like Edward moved on, they brushed off the offer and struggled to move on, too.

Well, not completely like Edward. Jean had overheard him telling Alphonse earlier that _nothing_ was wrong and _really_ , the guy just got lucky.

Thirty minutes after that, he had almost punched a doctor for keeping a hand on him too long during a checkup.

Picking up a card seemed easier than picking up one of the books. As Edward read his book, one hand never leaving Alphonse, Jean quietly read through Edward’s cards. The messages ranged from brusque to stumblingly sentimental, and Jean smiled as he read them. They eased some of the fire blazing in his gut, distracted him from the shadows under Edward’s eyes. Made it easier to breathe past the rock in his throat.

From the doorway, Mustang watched the scene. He examined Alphonse and his subordinates and, privately satisfied by what he saw, he nodded to himself and returned to the waiting room. Colonel Hawkeye and the others waited for him there.

Edward still stubbornly denied that the incident had affected him, but the others knew better. Whatever happened next, the others would still stand beside Edward, helping him regardless.

In the meantime . . . Mustang’s eyes glittered, raw hatred burning in his heart. He had an _accident_ to arrange.


End file.
